Christmas Queries
by Glum n Dumb Skittery
Summary: [slash, language, mention of sex] Christmas trees with only eight separate branches, the parental unit bringing over a fruitcake that bleeds, and a lover that can't even say "I love you" when you're conscious? 'Tis the season. [SnitchSkittery]


**A/N:** This is rather long. But it is my Christmas story and I got a tad carried away. Read and enjoy anyway, though. Please don't let the length scare you away.

**A Note:** My entry for The Banner's W&M Contest. So, the following is just informational and you can skip over it, should you choose to. It won't affect the course of your reading in any way, shape, and/or form.Category: Push/Pull  
Phrase(s): "This is not a hard concept to understand."  
"My heart is yours."  
"I guess it always comes down to this."

**All standard disclaimers apply.** Please enjoy.

"It's true wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas." -The Muppet Christmas Carol

Christmas Queries

He stares at me from across the room, almost calculatingly. That dark fringe of his falls over his forehead, into his eyes, the slightest kink curling upwards on the right side. His lips are pursed, concealing large, bright teeth. And he stares.

I bite.

Slamming my book shut, earning myself an extremely pointed look from Mr. Headers, the librarian, I shove my arm into one of the straps of my backpack and stalk towards him. I stop before his table and glare down at him, almost impressed with the large shadow that falls over him. I'm shorter than him, after all. It almost feels as though the power has shifted, if only a little.

But I'll never let him know just how much of a slave to him I am. And how hard I've fallen.

"Get up."

He continues staring at me, long and hard. His eyes have narrowed to skinny, wet slits, and he stares up at me, through my shadow cast on him by dimmed fluorescent lights. "Where are we going?"

"Just get up and come with me."

I start for the door, making a face at Header's back as I pass the front desk. I'm pretty sure, but not positive, that he will hesitate, prolong following me for the sake of spite, and then bolt from those stupid wooden library chairs to catch up with me.

"Hey, wait up, jerk!"

So predictable. So cute.

I let the glass door close behind me and hear him skid to keep from slamming full-force into it. He re-opens it, steps outside and doesn't even wait until it's fully closed before exploding.

"WILL YOU STOP BEING SUCH A DOUCHE FOR ONCE?! I JUST WANTED A FUCKING CHRISTMAS TREE!"

Shit. I've screwed up again. But even if I can admit it to myself, I will never admit it out loud. Just like so many other things.

So I glare.

"And I already told you that that _I_ didn't want one."

We're just going to ignore the fact that I was just going to go take him to get said tree. I can't tell him I was going to willingly be nice after what he did this morning, (namely waking me up at 3 AM requesting the stupid thing.) Not to mention informing me he'd invited my parents over for Christmas.

"Why?!"

"Why not?"

"ARGH! You're _infuriating_!"

He glares right back at me, hands balled in tight fists at his side, even as he stares down at me. "You're such a hard-ass," he acknowledges bitterly.

"I'm the hard-ass that owns the _house_. Besides, what are we going to do with a fucking _Christmas_ tree, Danny?"

Daniel's eyes widen, his expression akin to someone who has just been severely slapped. He's been caught completely off-guard. And I love him for that.

"Isaac Taylor."

Aw, shit.

His back straightens itself out, spine stiffening as he rears to his full height of six feet. His front teeth graze his lower lip and I concentrate on that; he hates his overbite, always has.

"You are an atheist, you _celebrate_ Christmas, your mom is the fucking Seasons Greeting Queen, and this year _I_ took the liberty of _repaying _them for never kicking you out after we both came out by inviting her over. If they come over and there is no tree, what do you think your mom's going to do?"

Castrate me. "Nothing."

"_Izzy_."

Sigh.

"What if she randomly decides to not like green this year?" Which could actually happen. One year, my mother boycotted the color mauve. Okay, well, maybe that's a little bit more understandable. I mean, c'mon: who can really stand up and announce that their favorite color is _mauve_.

That's right: (near) NO ONE.

He arches a thick brow.

"You won't be able to dance around the house anymore singing. You'll knock it down."

"A necessary sacrifice."

"We have a small house; we'll have nowhere to put the presents."

"I'll shove them up your ass. It seems there's room enough with that log you've got up there."

"Said he who had something of his own up said arse this very morning..."

"That was before you decided to be a complete and total Christmas Nazi!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

"Did too times fucking infinity!"

"You suck!"

"Yeah?! Well, I hate you!"

"Monkey Child!"

"Christmas Nazi!"

A passing lady with a walker and blue hair shoots us a look, hobbling past us as quickly as humanly possible; her grocery bag filled to the brim with tangerines sways precariously. We glare at each other in grim silence.

Danny's hair rustles in a sharp gust of winter wind. I bite down on my tongue to keep from shivering. "Isaac," he mutters in a low voice after a minute or so. "Get in the car."

I eye him suspiciously, but acquiesce anyway. We find ourselves driving home, arriving within a matter of half an hour, (driving into town has always been a real pain in the ass). I dig in my pocket for the key, toeing my shoes off before trudging in through the main hallway and into the kitchen.

"We're getting a tree tonight, whether you like it or not!" Danny calls as he closes the door behind me.

"When reindeer fly!" I call back, mock cheerfully. I open the fridge and peer in, looking for something to drink. Anything to ebb this steadily growing migraine. My search is placed on hold, however, when twin ivory limbs wrap around my waist, pulling me out of the kitchen appliance and turning me around. The wind is quite literally knocked out of my lungs as my back collides with the now closed refrigerator door, several magnets fall with loud plastic clatters to the floor.

"Quit being such an emo-punk," he murmurs, lips brushing against mine with every word just before pressing down tightly.

In a way, I guess it always comes down to this. Me and him making some obscene scene in public, fighting, biting each other's head off, coming home quite angry... and then fucking each other's brains out.

And I love him for that.

The banter never ends. We both know I always give in to him. Yet, it always continues.

"Emo... punk... is an... oxy...moron...Dan."

"And reindeer...can _so_...fly."

His teeth graze my lower lip and before I know it I've lost all comprehensible thoughts that exist outside of our two bodies twined together.

I love the way he can do that to me: turn me into this pile of sexual nerves, I mean. I love how he never rushes anything, how he finds ways to keep the pain away as long as possible. I love how he whispers sweet nothings into my ear and I suddenly start to believe that Cloud Nine is really a tangible location.

I love it all.

And no. It's not just the sex. Though we go through such conversations constantly for the sake of banter. It's the almost cliché exchange of dialogue:

"Tell me you love me."  
"You know it's all about the sex."  
"Jerk."  
"Fag."  
"...I love you."

"I know."

It's all very akin to the epic Han Solo-Leia affair, but, c'mon, give me a little credit here. It's hard enough acting affectionate. Not that I have to force myself too. I just feel... awkward.

And not awkward like I don't want to, more like awkward in not knowing what to do or how he'll respond. In a way, I suppose I cherish him so much more than he'll ever come to realize.

"Isaac, can we go buy a tree?"

He's like a small child, spooning beside me, his chin resting on my shoulder, breath hitting my ear just as we come down from the euphoria of after-glow. And yes. I did just say "after-glow." And he's the only one I'd use such a phrase with. Oh, stop looking at me like that.

I sigh. "Of course."

He tightens his hold around my waist, pulling the sheets up higher around us. A contented sigh passes through his swollen lips. I don't have to turn my head to know that he is smiling at the prospect of going tree-shopping. I don't give him the satisfaction to let him know that I'm smiling too.

"I love you," he whispers.

I drop my eyelids and feign sleep, which isn't hard from the waves of sated exhaustion that

flood my veins. I wait until Danny's breathing has smoothed out entirely, dropping to a steady, deep rhythm before caressing the back of his hand with my own. "I love you, too," I whisper.

I know he doesn't hear me. But it's just as well, this way.

He'll never hear me say it.

ooo ... ooo

A loud, high-pitched squeal that is quite strange coming from the mouth resting atop his high frame is emitted. "It's perfect!"

"...Danny, this isn't the fucking Peanuts' gang Christmas."

"We're getting it, Isaac, and I really don't care what you say or think. It's coming home with us."

I gape at the pathetic excuse for a tree set before me. Which Dan can, not surprisingly, carry with only one hand. Hell, _I_ could probably cart it off using only my pinky! I'm man enough to admit that I'm short...er than Danny.

The poor thing has barely any pine needles on its branches, and those that are miraculously still clinging to it are probably going to be aided with much Scotch-Tape by the time we get it home.

"No way in hell is that thing going to be strapped to the roof of our car. It's just _sad_."

"Of course, it won't. It can fit in the back seat."

"Danny!"

"Isaac!"

He levels my glare with an unwavering, blood-chilling, head-on, withering stare of his own. I swallow the cowering side of me that wants to shiver and hide behind the midget tree.

"The tree stays."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Fine!"

Dan smirks at me triumphantly and saunters off to purchase the weed of a tree. Did I ever mention I love it when he smirks? Because yeah, I do; it's really damn sexy. I don't even care if he's won this "argument"; I'd have let him get the tree if there was a giant lizard humanoid creature attached to it.

Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I follow after him. Like the love-sick 26-year old I am.

ooo ... ooo

Danny happily claps his hands together, acting every bit the 12-year old I fell in love with.

Yes, I _have_ known him for that long, if you can believe it. Met him at 12, loved him at 12, kissed him at 15, dated him at 15, and made love with him at 17. He's been my first everything. He'll be my last.

He's mines forever. And I'll never let him know it.

"Yay, Charlie Brown Christmas!"

I stare at the tree, then at Danny, and burst out laughing.

"What?"

The fucking tree has one, that's right _one_, single red ornament drooping off its top branch. It tilts a little to the side. Actually, it looks ready to pretty much collapse. Having just taken down all the boxes of ornaments my mother had given to us the past year, (which was a whole shitload, mind you), I take a seat. So much for that, huh?

"Tinsel, please." Danny extends his hand out, not looking at me as he admires his handiwork.

"Huh?"

"Tinsel!"

I arch a brow. He isn't serious, is he? I pluck out the smallest strands of the sparkly garland I can find. "Silver, gold, or red?"

He squints his eyes and tilts his head slightly. "Hmm. Well, the ornament's already red. Gold, please."

I chuckle. "You're being awfully polite."

Danny takes the tinsel wordlessly from me and smiles to himself as he drapes it around the poor, barely four-foot tall, twig of a tree. It barely has eight separate branches. And Danny is trying _so_ hard. I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry. Or take him back to buy a real tree. I'm pretty sure either option will make him upset.

He steps back and lowers himself to sit next to me. Instinctively I let my head drop onto his shoulder, stiffly, but still there. His arm finds its way around my waist and pulls me closer, forcing me to relax. I love how he knows just what to do. And never questions me about it.

"It's..." I pause, trying to find the right words for the tree other than "the saddest thing I've ever seen" or "...disturbing." But none really seem to come to mind after that.

"Quaint," Dan finishes up, burying his nose in to the hair at the top of my head.

I struggle to agree with him, a very unconvincing echo of "Quaint" coming from my mouth, but if Danny notices, he doesn't say a thing. God, we are _so_ gay. The tree looks ready to die.

"You do know my mother isn't going to see the humor in this."

"What humor?"

"Your incessant Charlie Brown theme."

"It's not a theme!"

"No, you just have a crush on Schroeder."

He stares at me with wide, incredulous saucer eyes before pinching my arm hard enough to make me wince. "Don't be cruel."

"Truth hurts, babe."

Danny acknowledges this direction of conversation no further, instead opting to lean against the coffee table, pulling me closer against him as we stare at his Christmas… tree thing.

Almost absent-mindedly, he starts trailing patterns across my clothed torso. I sigh and submit to his loving ministrations. Yes, God. I love him. Happy?

"I wonder if we can string some lights on it."

I arch a brow in the weed's general direction. "I think it'll burst into flames from the heat."

"Oh, stop it. We rescued it, you know? Who else would buy the poor thing?"

"I'm sure the lot could've donated it to somewhere. Like the city dump."

"Isaac."

I turn my head to give him a mischievous smirk and am rewarded with a hard glare. Sighing, I hesitate but the slightest before pecking him on his suddenly upturned lips. That's my apology. That's all he'll get. "I'll untangle the lights," I begrudgingly state, settling back into his arms.

I can almost hear the smile in his voice as he murmurs a quick, "Good," before his lips alight on my head chastely.

And I love him for it.

ooo … ooo

"Now, honey, I _know_ you aren't buying your lover _socks_ for Christmas."

"Don't be stupid. These are for you."

"_SKITTERY_!"

"Jeeze, calm down. I was _joking_. And don't call me that."

My sister, Joanna, has never been an easy person to shop with. Especially when you, yourself, have never been a person who generally enjoys shopping to the least.

"I'm just saying… you've been in love with him, what, fourteen years? You gotta get him something special, Isaac."

"God, Jo. Just pay for the wedding already, why don't you?"

Jo flips a torrent of dark-brown permed locks over her shoulder and stares haughtily ahead, as I trail along behind her, dragging her shopping bags with me. We've visited eighteen stores already, (the last of which being Foot Locker, hence the socks), and while my dear big sister has already safely tucked away gifts to cover the next five years worth of Christmases, I have nothing.

God damn.

Danny and his pal from the diaper days, who refuses to be called anything but Itey, had chosen to forego the Christmas Hell that is the mall, and shop wherever they pleased.

Leaving me alone with Jo.

"FURBIES! HOW _ADORABLE_!"

Bleed eyes, bleed. Didn't those bug-eyed, half-bird, half-limbless mammals that spouted gibberish fall out of the market of anything remotely resembling "cool" years ago?

Say it with me: Yes. As it really damn well should have.

Tearing my darling, squealing sibling away from the KB Toy Store, I immediately head for the nearest electronic store. My form of utter revenge for being dragged into fucking _Victoria's Secret_. It had made me remember why I was gay.

We're a mere two feet away from Radio Shack when Jo comes back to reality. An electronics shop? She simply won't have it. Before I can protest, we're both doing an abrupt 180 and entering Kay's Jewelry Store.

"_Jooooo_…"

"Look, Isaac. This is _not _a hard concept to understand. Well, generally, but let's not get all technical. You love him, he loves you, it's Christmas, and what else but jewelry screams, 'Take me, I'm yours'?"

Oh God. My sister has been possessed by some romantic teenage demon spawn. And I shall now proceed to doing the only thing I can do. I stare.

"Do you get some kind of sick, twisted pleasure out of my gayness, Jo?"

Joanna sighs. "I'm just saying… oh, look! Isn't this diamond ring pretty?"

"Save the act for your husband. I'm buying neither you nor Danny a fucking diamond ring. We're gay. Not transvestites."

"True. Diamonds are a _girl's_ best friend, after all."

"Whatever, Satine."

"You are _so _gay."

Half an hour, or so, later and Jo's husband, Bryce, has joined us, and is meekly allowing my sister to pick out Christmas gifts from him for her. Go figure.

"Skittery?"

Okay, seriously. High school nicknames should never be said after graduation. _Ever._ I turn.

My eyes must look ridiculously cartoonish as they bulge, and I gape. Literally gape.

"Davey?"

David Jacobs, valedictorian of our graduating class, beams back at me from behind the counter. "That'd be me. Fancy meeting you here. Shopping for Snitch?"

I feel my face light up in such a way that would make Rudolph's nose proud, despite all efforts. I mumble a barely coherent, "Yeah."

He chuckles. "You guys always were the Rainbow Happily Ever After. I mean, wow. Still together? Just for that I'll discount you. Anything you want."

"Uhh…"

"Don't worry. This is the family business. I work part-time during the holidays. I can do this and not be shot."

It's my turn to laugh. "Okay. Wow. Thanks."

Davey grins. "No problem. Take your time." That said, he makes his way over to the now-bickering Bryce and Joanna, near the counter with dozens of glimmering diamond-studded watches.

Hmm. Danny — former alias Snitch, (curse high school) — probably wouldn't appreciate the sensibility, (and therefore lack of imagination), in a watch. Sigh. What am I really going to buy in a godforsaken jewelry store?

I mean, God, yeah, I do, you know… _love_ him and stuff. Not that I'm going to run around in tiny circles or frolic through the florist's declaring it. I can barely say it when he's unconscious. But in my head, it really is a nice thought. And that's why I just _have_ to buy him _some_thing.

I keep walking. Well, we've already nixed on the watches; earrings aren't even funny; bracelets, oh yes, I can see it now; necklaces… well that would be humorous… no, not really. That leaves… _rings_.

'_You love him, he loves you, it's Christmas…'_

Hmm. Now this I could just maybe work with.

"Hey, David?"

ooo... ooo

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!"

"Merry — whoa — ack — _gahh_ — Mrs. — mmph!"

I edge past Danny, currently being smothered by my mother, and shake hands with my

equally decidedly oblivious father, exchanging the usual season's greetings. "Hey, Dad. Uh, Ma? MA! Let go, he can't breathe!"

"HUAAAAAAAAH!" I snort at the dramatic intake of air via Dan. "I'm okay." Cough. Hack. Choke. "Nice to see you too, Mrs. Taylor. Come in." Abrupt clearing of throat. Deep breath. "Make yourselves at home. Merry Christmas, Mr. Taylor."

Ushering my folks into the living room with the hideous Indian-weave throw rug, I can't help but mutter, "Suck-up," and dodge Danny's fist, laughing. The fact that he doesn't want to be offended in the presence of my mother is yet another reason to adore him. To love him.

"Isaac, darling." I shoot Danny a look before speeding up and entering the room before him at my mother's beckon. I raise my brows in query. Her arms are crossed tersely across her chest, the glow of the lights we'd strung across the mantle reflecting across the lens of her glasses. I follow the gaze of her green-gray eyes.

Oh. Heh. The tree.

I paste on a huge, shit-faced smile. "Isn't it… _quaint_, Mother Dear? Yes, it is." I just answered my own question. Shoot me. "It's Dan's baby!" Victory — OW! Owowowowow…!

I now have a nice bruise on my arse. Great.

Controlling my grimace, I make up some excuse about going to get drinks for the lot of us, dragging my abusive lover along with me into the kitchen.

"You _pinched_ my ass!" I hiss, opening the fridge.

Dan purses his lips together smugly. Not at all apologetic. "You could've at least pretended to like your own damn Christmas tree."

"I do!"

"Do not!"

"You were just look for an excuse to touch my ass, weren't you?!"

"…Jerk!"

"Schroeder-lover!"

"Boys, would you like some help in there?" We both turn to the door of whose other side my mother calls from.

Looking at each other, we glare, then simultaneously shout, "No thanks!"

With one last glare, Danny goes to get the glasses, while I take out a bottle of wine we'd bought just for the occasion. (Or rather, the bottle of wine _Dan_ had bought for the special occasion. I would've probably bought Hawaiian Punch and wallowed in my mirth at the expression on my mother's face. But that's just me.) We both know this argument will continue later. Preferably when we don't have guests to interrupt us from jumping each other.

And you can take that however you wish.

"So, did you boys have a nice Christmas?" I watch in vapid amusement as my mother sips her wine, her pinky sticking straight up whilst the other digits curl around the stem of the glass.

And she wonders why I'm gay.

Dan manages not to squirm in his seat from the excitement, like a puppy with a new toy. Is it redundant if I say that it's another reason to love him? I didn't think so either.

"Yes, ma'am," is what he says, but I know inside he's reciting a list of what he's received.

Almost instantly, in a very creepy moment, he sends me a little look.

I suppose I should explain that one of my gag gifts to him had been a rainbow-print handkerchief. Inside of which I'd wrapped a travel make-up kit.

Hey, it was retaliation for the negligee he'd so gleefully watched me unwrap three Christmases ago. It'd been _pink_. No one ever said payback wasn't a bitch. And it could've been worse!

My father smiles. But my mother presses on. "Oh, Isaac, did you get the package I sent you?" I swallow yet another grimace with my gulp of wine, nearly choking on it, as I wrack my brain for an answer that _won't_ get me mauled.

She'd sent both of us _puce _sweaters about eight sizes too big, more ornaments for a tree that would die under anymore weight, something that looked remotely like a teddy bear, (God, I know!), and about four million _fruitcakes_. For fuck's sake — _fruitcakes_! Of which, may I add, Danny "just so happened" to "remember" he had an allergic reaction to, and therefore will neither help me eat — shudder — or dispose of it.

Bastard.

"Uhh… yeah, yes. _Yes_. I got it, and, um, thanks, mom?"

Please don't kill me on Christmas, please don't kill me on Christmas…

"Oh, you're welcome."

Thank you, God.

"You know, I made those fruitcakes myself."

Somewhere next to me, my dad and boyfriend both snort loudly into their drinks, and whether it's because of the sudden fall of my face or my mother's naïveté, I'm not quite sure.

The guilt factor slowly seeps in. That's right, Isaac, old man: Grin and bear it.

"R-really? Wow." Cough, clearing of throat, smile, stare. In that order.

My mother smiles, obviously pleased with herself, and we all smile back at her. Awkward silence settles in. Whoo.

Sufficient to say, dinner isn't much better. My dad and Dan stay mute, my mother rambles, and I'm left to "converse" with her. When I say "converse" I mean dialoguing that consists only of nodding, smiling, politely laughing, and/or the occasional "Really?", "Wow.", and "Is that so?"

Observe:

"So I've been trying to find a new hobby, now that I'm retired— "

Multiple head-nods.

"— I've tried mah-jongg, croquet, tennis, even _ballroom dancing_, for Heaven's sake!"

Polite laughter. And a random "Is that so?" thrown in. Just because.

"So then my friend, Maxine, oh, you remember her, don't you Isaac?"

Not at all. No. What the hell. More nodding! And a smile!

"Well, Maxine told me about this bridge club she joined."

Sigh. "Really?"

"But do I look like a woman who plays bridge?"

Uhh.

"No, of course not!"

Of _course_ not! NOD.

"I never even learned how to play bridge. So I declined. But Maxine, she's a relentless one,

you know? You remember that time she was in charge of the church's Christmas production?"

Err…

"It was a complete disaster, remember? Anyway, her being relentless, she said — and these are her exact words, dear— are you listening?"

Nod, nod.

It's about here that I notice that my own father and boyfriend have now turned their muteness off and are talking about much more exciting, _interesting_ things. Like how the Anaheim Mighty Ducks were crushed by the Redwings this past weekend, and … oh, fine, make me say it: _manly_ stuff.

Yes, quite obviously the world has gone insane.

"— garden club! Isn't that splendid! I've joined the Gardening Club!"

Oh joy and rapture, Mumsy Dear! Why don't I join you too, as long as we're having this ever-so girl-to-girl conversation, right?

"Really? Wow."

Dan laughs loudly next to me, bursting into hilarity alongside my father. My mother's head turns fast enough to put the head-spinning trick in the _Exorcist_ to shame. She gives my father The Glare. He immediately regains his composure. Danny, however…

Oh, what the hell. Like you _really_ thought I wasn't at least going to _try_ to imitate my mother? The one who is quite possibly responsible for my gayness, (not that I'm complaining, mind you), go without flattery? Surely you jest. Some dead guy _did_ say "The greatest form of imitation is flattery", right? Something like it? …or am I mixing it up with Mark Twain's "The greatest of the lost arts is honesty"?

Screw it.

Bottom line: I give Dan The Evil Eye.

It occurs to me then that perhaps The Glare isn't genetic, as Dan does one of the farthest things from cowering I've ever seen. He pouts. His lower lip juts out ever-so discreetly, puffing up as he sets his jaw tightly.

Holy _shit_, I love him. But right now I really _hate_ him too.

Honestly, talking to my _mother_ of all people about fucking _gardening clubs_? She might as well have castrated me upon entry.

…ew. Okay, maybe not really, but. Still.

Dessert doesn't go much better, to tell you the complete truth. My mother, (now drunk and rambling), had brought over something covered in about a foot and a half of chocolate frosting. I was convinced it was fruitcake she was hiding under all that sugar. It just _had_ to be. Dan had bought pumpkin pie and ice cream.

We had offered to serve up the desserts and let my folks rest. Not that they had done anything besides sit and talk, or sit and watch the news, the entire time they'd been here. But Danny was still trying to get on to their good side. A side he'd been on since we'd all met at the age of 12, but… well, it's _Danny_.

"Mute."

"Fag."

"Suck-up."

It feels really good to have some kind of banter with him, no matter how pathetic, after _three hours_ with the parental unit. Dan and I just cannot be entirely civil to each other. It's an unwritten law. This constant teasing is what keeps us alive. What makes me… (yes, say it with me already) … _love _the damn man.

"…Isaac, are we really going to serve this… whatever it is your mom supposedly made from scratch?"

I twist my lips, staring long and hard at the chocolate frosting monstrosity through narrowed eye slits. The visual image of me with a very large match and a quart of gasoline comes to mind. Hey… if you squint your eyes up really tight the thing kinda looks like firewood!

Dear God, we have found its sole use, ladies and gentlemen!

"You think it's a good idea?" I ask him, turning to get a look at his expression.

"Probably not," he admits, wrinkling his nose.

Snickering, we shovel out the pieces of store-bought pumpkin pie and small scoops of vanilla ice cream before even daring to cut into the "cake".

Danny's eye twitches. "Ew."

That about sums up the "dessert". It _squelches _when you cut into it. And then it oozes… stuff.

"Izzy, please tell me that is _not_ blood coming out of this thing."

But I can neither confirm nor deny it as some sticky, red liquid splatters the countertop, smelling faintly of meatloaf. I swallow thickly and stare at it. Too thin to be blood, I decide, and, just to reassure Dan, shrug dramatically before we continue carving into the "cake."

"You realize you're going to have to eat at least part of this… cake," I admonish Dan, both of us squawking as more red liquid comes splashing out, only this time it flies into both of our faces.

He wipes the back of his hand over his eyes, clearing them of most of the substance, indignant to the last. "And why exactly is that?"

"You invited her over. You have to be a gracious host, babe."

"…_fuck_ that!"

Ahahahahah! Ew… fucking liquid cake…

A quarter of an hour later, we're all back at the table, my father and I happily digging into our pumpkin pie, my mother happily rambling to Dan, and Dan alternating between nodding politely and staring forlornly at his plate. Where a minimal mound of the blob rests, dark red and covered in chocolate frosting that closely resembles mud, the bottom of his paper plate slowly turning pink.

"I got the recipe from one of the ladies in the gardening club, Evelyn," my mother quips, apparently catching one of Danny's glances at his plate, as though hoping in the amount of time he's looked away it's miraculously disappeared.

He forces a watery smile. "Really? So, uh… what's in it… exactly?"

"Well, it _is_ a Red Velvet Cake, so— "

Insert insane, maniacal, muffled laughter here. My father shoots me a dark look, hardly winning the battle with the large grin he's trying to wipe off his face. He shoves a large amount of ice cream into his mouth and determinedly fixes his eyes on the wooden grain of the tabletop, as though it holds the secrets to discovering the meaning of life.

I refrain from telling him about that one time Danny and I had made out on top of it. The cake is traumatizing enough. And it's not like I can utter words of coherency at the moment.

I'm too busy burying my forehead into my napkin, faking a coughing fit to disguise my cackle.

Might I mention I love Danny's indignation? And the expression of incredulity he's wearing at this very moment as I prompt him to taste a bit of the… cake? Because I most certainly do.

Eighteen million hours later, my parents decide to leave as they "wouldn't dream of wearing out their welcome", which they, as well as we, knew they'd done upon passing through the doorway. But we exchange polite "good-byes", "good nights" and "Merry Christmases" before they finally _leave_.

I almost cry with relief.

In the time it'd taken for Dan and I to serve them a decent meal and dessert, (with the exception of that very wet cake), and let my mother give us a play-by-play of her life thus far, she'd managed to get quite drunk. Which resulted in the inevitable tabletop interrogation.

"I _told_ you we should've gotten Hawaiian Punch." I plop down on the sofa next to Danny, immediately reaching for his waist and awkwardly burying my face into his side, almost too tired to be grateful for his automatic motions of pulling me closer than I already am.

"Shut up, you didn't have to even _taste_ that cake. Or whatever it was."

I sigh. "Fine." Groaning, I try not to recall my mother's shrill, slurred voice as my father dozed in his chair in blissful ignorance.

"Do you plan on adopting children, then, you two? Oh no, stupid question. That's all you gay people can do, can't you? Well then, do you plan on getting a civil … thing… the paper that's almost like a marriage?"

Here's where the waterworks kicked in.

_"Oh, a marriage! Isaac, why didn't you get married to a nice _girl_? A girl you could legally marry in America, and not some boy you'd have to fly to Canada with to even consider marriage? Why did you do this to_ me_? I tolerated it, I really did. You should know. Never kicked you out… not that I don't love you. Or you, Danny."_

Wine always did loosen her tongue. I guess she'd been holding back a whole fucking lot more than I expected since, well, ever. She could barely say the word "gay", even to this day. It was her own form of denial.

"_You're both wonderful… boys."_

Boys… two boys in love. All my thoughts collide together suddenly and I smile into the crook of Danny's neck. I'll have to remember to thank my mother later.

"Well, I didn't think that went too badly, did you?" I murmur a tad sarcastically, letting my eyes fall shut.

Dan makes a tiny noise of disbelief somewhere in the back of his throat. "After your mother chewed me out for corrupting you at the age of 12 I was starting to think inviting them over was a bad idea."

Oh, yeah. Forgot about that. My mom had asked us where the bathroom was, (after her big post-dessert, post-waaaay too much wine, rant), and had asked Danny to show her the way.

Ten seconds later the entire house was echoing with her sobs and wails and shrieks about how she'd had "plans" and how long was he "going to play with my heart", and it all ended with Danny whispering in a low voice that still managed to carry into the dining room, "Mrs. Taylor, I love your son."

And my drunken mother, who never did know how to hold her liquor, muttered a slurred, "I know, dear. Now if you'll excuse me," before shutting the bathroom door behind her.

Danny had come back grinning.

I loved him for his optimism at that moment, for that look of completion on his face. Like he finally felt he had been redeemed… like he _belonged_. I don't think I ever really realized how much he craved the acceptance of my parents. Our friends, our employers and employees, even everyone back in school, he'd have happily flicked them all off; their mundane bigotry-induced opinions could never get him down.

Suddenly I wonder if it's really now or never and pull back from his warmth, just slightly. Is this really how things are supposed to be? Is this love? "To be or not to be?" my conscience screams at me, panicking abruptly.

Then there's the parallel conscience that calmly wraps its arms around the former, suffocating the panic, driving it away. And all it says, a wisp of wind its breath, "Of course it is."

I can say with full confidence, in the closeted confines of my head, that I love every little thing about him. In my mind, I can have as corny, lame and completely romantic fantasies about Danny as I damn well want to. My brain will allow my imagination to paint of picture of me standing on the top of the goddamn Brooklyn Bridge, shouting "I FUCKING LOVE DANIEL ABBOTT!". And sometimes I really want to shoot myself for feeling this way. Sometimes I wonder if I deserve it. But then I'll look at him and figure, there has to be some reason he's stuck with me this long. And that'll be enough.

_Every little thing…, _I think. And my mind explodes.

I love the way he wakes up long before I do and will just lay there until my alarm goes off before pouncing and _forcing_ me to wake up. I love how he knows I'm never _really_ mad at him. I love the way he sings to the radio in the morning.

I love how he has a very limited range of things to cook. I love how he attempts recipes anyway. I love how he ashamedly offers it to me, to taste, and how he looks so hopeful in the outcome.

I love how his face lights up.

I love his eyes, his nose, his lips, his mouth, his tongue… I love the taut muscles in his arms and legs, the curve of his neck, the curious bend of his knee, his overbite and smile (even if he doesn't).

I love how easily he can get pissed. I love how he can happy just as easily…okay, and horny too. I love how he always tries to see the bright side of things. I love his "Have Hope!" attitude. I love his mood swings and pseudo-PMS that occurs from time to time.

I love how he makes me go out in the middle of the night, (or, in one instance, the middle of making love), to go to the store and pick up chocolate, or cookie dough, or some other weird, totally feminine comfort food for him when he's had a bad day, dream, or craving.

I love watching him play the tenor sax, his baby. I love the way his fingers move so deftly across the golden skin of the instrument, and how he cares for it so tenderly. I love how he'll never let me anywhere within five feet of it with food or drink.

I love his instinct. I love his warmth. I love how he will randomly kiss or hug me. I love how we naturally fit together. I love the fact that our hands mold together perfectly. I love just the fact that we're… _together. _

I love that he's mine.

I love Every. Fucking. Little. Thing about him. Everything I can or cannot think of. Everything I've discovered and have yet to discover about him. Simply _everything_.

I love Danny.

"Izzy, what's wrong?"

It takes me a second to realize that there's now an ocean swimming across the cotton fabric front of Dan's shirt, that my face is very wet, and, (this takes me a bit longer to acknowledge), that I'm _crying_. I think I say something along the lines of, "My brain won't turn off, it's going in circles," though I'm not really sure.

Despite whatever it is I do say, though, he smiles gently anyway and lets the pad of his thumb whisk away the flow of a steady stream of tears. "I'm sorry I invited your parents over without asking."

Is that what he thinks it is? Oh, Danny…

I swipe hurriedly at my puffy eyes, pulling away and sitting upright suddenly. "No! No, it's not that. Wait, okay? Just wait here. …okay?"

So much for being the hard-ass.

With images of possible scenarios fighting their way to the front of my mind, the understanding of what I suddenly feel like doing dawns. Am I really that brave? I mean, I can't even tell the boy that I love him out loud until I'm absolutely sure he can't hear me.

Which _is_ pathetic. I know.

I pick up my backpack, stuffed in the closet near our room, and rummage through it, extracting a small wrapped gift moments later. God, two more people to thank: Joanna and David Jacobs. That can wait.

He still might decide I'm not worth it and leave me.

"Danny?" Stepping foot back into the living room, eyes fixated on the floor as Dan shifts from his seat on the sofa to look at me, I slowly make my way towards him. My throat is pulsing painfully, my internal organs playing some cruel joke by switching places without a moment's notice, hopping from place to place and slamming against the interior of my body.

Is it the wind screaming in my ears or my own blood? I can't tell anymore.

"Isaac? Izzy, you okay?"

I take a deep, steadying breath. Will I, or won't I? It _is_ Christmas, after all. It can _just_ be a gift. It's just a gift.

Will I?

Or won't I?

All these stupid questions. "Can we get a Christmas tree?" he'd asked. "Why? - Why not?" we'd argued. Joanna's stupidity had screamed, "And what else but jewelry screams, 'Take me, I'm yours'?" "Why didn't you get married to a nice _girl_?" my wine-happy mother had sobbed. And it narrows down to here. To now. And him. "You okay?"

Will I or won't I?

Shit.

"The gag gift… that's all it was, you know?" I murmur, suddenly more hesitant with him than I've ever been. "I… I got you a real gift, too."

Dan's eyes shift, his expression going from worry to downright confusion. Hand shaking, I toss him the small wrapped box.

"Open it."

He stares at me before looking down at the present in his hands. Slowly, _slowly_, he peels off the colored paper and stares at the tiny ring box set before him. His brows furrow as he looks from it, to me, as though wondering, for sure, if he can, (should?), open it. As though unsure if it's _really_ for him.

I gulp. "Open it," I repeat.

The green velvet lid is slowly pushed up, the white lining inside revealed bit by bit, bringing to plain sight the silver band that sits nestled within, a single, thin gold line running through the middle in the slightest of indentions. I try very hard to smile as I take a seat across from him, staring at his trembling hands and quelling sudden nausea.

Danny is unnervingly silent for a long moment before he looks to me once again, a combined expression of awe and questioning.

I let one end of my lips quirk upward; it's all I can manage. "Merry Christmas, Danny," I whisper.

_Now or Never,_ both consciences shriek_. Take the Chance. It's Worth a Chance. It has to be._

My next four words seem to hang in the air as soon as they pass, almost cloud-like, over my chapped lips. And then the only thing that can be heard is our mingled breathing, the house settling, and the wrapping paper on Danny's lap shaking as his entire body suddenly freezes, limbs trembling.

"Will you marry me?"

And I meet his eyes. Danny stares back at me, so like his unwavering gaze in the library the other day, or at me when we're in the heat of an argument. Like when we fulfilled his wish for a Christmas tree and stepped back to admire the finished product. Like when he couldn't decipher my mother's supposed confection from cow dung. Like when I started crying in his arms mere minutes before for, apparently, no reason at all.

So what does this stare mean, then?

Anger, contentment, disgust, worry… which of these? None of these?

Unable to take it any longer, I tear my eyes away, ready to declare that I'd been kidding or, if I couldn't handle that either, "Never mind. Stupid of me anyway." I'd explain that I'd been caught up in the romantic whims of my sister, or that David's phrase of "Rainbow Happily Ever After" engrained in my mind had influenced me, too.

Stupid, really.

Fuck.

"…of course, I will, you jerk."

"…_what_?"

"We can go to Canada like your mom said and we'll never have to hear another Marriage Rant."

I don't know whether these renewed tears are of relief or anguish.

He's trying to restart the banter. The one thing we've always been accustomed to. The one thing that bonds us together. The reason we'll never have to drift apart.

"You fag," I manage, biting back a sob.

"Jerk," he murmurs affectionately, crossing the distance between us and pulling me into his arms. "I always thought I'd be the one to propose," he whispers just before kissing me.

Danny gazes at me with remarkably shiny eyes as the kiss breaks. "You've never even told me you love me."

Ouch. I try to pull away but his grip is iron-tight. _He'll never know_, I remind myself. I would never leave myself that vulnerable. Not even to him.

Lowering my head, instead I break my tears with an ironic chuckle. I take the ring box from his hand and remove his left hand from my waist, slipping it on the appropriate finger, taking immense pride in how good it looks on him. It's yet another reason to love him.

"I may never be able to say if I love you," I admit, feeling the grip of his right hand loosen, before placing my hand atop it and tilting my head, meeting his cast-iron stare head-on. "But I will _never _be capable of saying I don't."

Danny smiles. "I love you."

The "I know," is poised at the tip of my tongue before I realize I've been saying this all my life. Even to my own mother. I manage another small quirked smile as a new response comes to mind. I say it before I think it, though.

"My heart is yours."

And it seems to suffice just fine. I'm pulled back into another embrace, his lips brushing shyly against my own. It's his turn to be hesitant, to be unsure of the future. Because I'm right where I belong for once: in his arms.

And I love it here.

**-end-**

Last line credited to XTsukimiOdangoX. Please do not maim for usage.

**A/N:** Merry Christmas, everyone. Hope you enjoyed. If you'd be so kind as to drop me a review, it'd be quite lovely. ) God bless us, everyone.


End file.
